


sounds of laughter, shades of life

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:32:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: Sounds of Laughter, Shades of LifeAuthor: Fab4fic_loverRating: AllWord count: 1004Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles, or any of their rights. This is merely a work of fiction.A/N: I had a dream last night that wouldn't leave my mind alone. I took some of its elements, and wrote a fic about it. John's POV and I guess you know what it's about when you've finished reading it. I deliberately chose to not let this fic beta. There's another one-shot on the way which will have been checked.Uh. Aand I'm sure I'm over my writer's block now. *Chases plot bunnies and tries to kill them*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted pre 28 DECEMBER 2008.

I watch as the car drives away, into the thick fog. Then I look back at the building, which I can hardly see as it has been covered in the same translucent white the car did just disappear in. It's huge. And old. It's all I can say about it right now, because no matter how much I squint with my eyes, it stays the same.

When I get cold I decide to go inside. 

Once there I immediately head for the only counter I see. It has been made out of wood, with figures carved in it. I recognize a couple of mythical creatures when I get nearer, from different religions; Zeus, Thor, and Buddha are the ones that I know to name with just one look – for the rest I would need more time.

The lady behind the counter – she does not introduce herself and doesn't have a name tag – directs me towards a door. When I open it, I find myself walking into a corridor.

It's not a normal corridor though. What I see all around me – except for the dark wooden floor – are pictures of Paul. Nothing but pictures of him, and artwork. Not just artwork either – every single piece is as brilliant as an artwork can be, the proportions couldn't have been any better and while some works are picture perfect, others are so obviously paintings, but still I feel as if I'm looking at the human Paul McCartney.

I walk on, while studying the pictures surrounding me. There is a little boy running past me, but I don't pay attention to him; Paul's eyes looking at me in thousandfold have got my main interest right now.

When I get to the end of the corridor, I find there are two big doors, engraved with the same creatures as the counter. I push them open, and think this is a surprisingly easy thing to do – you'd expect it would be a lot harder to push away the weight of the dark and old wood. 

Behind them there is a room – or rather said; a hall. I see an orchestra playing, an orchestra of children. I can't hear what they are playing though, it reminds me of a Beatles song though. When I look at them closely, I can see the young guitarist is not forming chords but only strumming the strings with his other hand, and the boy that is behind the keyboard merely presses a couple of buttons rather than the keys to produce a sound. It comes to my mind that all of it actually sounds a lot more like unidentified noise now I'm closer, rather than a proper song. There's a choirmaster in front of them though, swaying with his arms as if he were giving the orchestra instructions. 

For a while I keep watching them. Although the music definitely doesn't interest me a lot, the whole atmosphere in the space is incredible. It makes me feel happy, in a strange way, and calm. The feeling is spreading through my body as I breathe more air, watch the children longer, the absurdity of it all exactly what I like and exactly what I need right now. 

Then the little boy reappears out of nowhere. While he can barely stand still – he seems quite excited about something, desperate to show me something – he grabs my arm and drags me along, around a corner. The hall seems to be divided into different areas, as now I'm suddenly facing a person who walks around between slightly older kids. They are standing behind painter's easels and look like they are actually doing something sensible. Even though I already know the answer, I still can't help but wonder what they are making.

When I'm done watching the paintings, I walk back. Past the young musicians and through the doors. Once I'm in the corridor again – I don't bother closing the doors behind me, Paul's face looks a lot nicer in daylight – I notice a table has been placed against the wall. A chair is standing next to it, and altogether it looks like the pair of furniture has been standing there forever. It feels like it's a place to wait, especially as there is reading matter laying on the table. 

It is not the usual reading you'd find in the doctor's or dentist's waiting room – it is all about the Beatles. Not magazines with articles about them – us, I correct myself, because what does it matter anyway? - but the Beatle Books, the fan magazines. There are also couple of books, both about us four Liverpool lads as well. 

When I turn around because I think I hear something, I can see the boy is standing behind me again. He wants me to follow him, it seems, so I do.

Halfway down the corridor there's a stairway that leads upstairs, and I climb it because the boy does too. It circles round and round as we climb higher and higher and eventually, when I start feeling out of breath, the boy opens a door for me and I walk through it. 

There's a room. It's big, bright, and contains not only a bed but also several instruments and a writing desk. I know this place is only to wait, and I know what I'm waiting for – I wouldn't even be able to forget in this place – and I suppose I could wait. The atmosphere is so nice here and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Too bad I have to start waiting too young.


End file.
